


Biters

by Bixby Flood (Audrey_T)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 07:58:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6795763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Audrey_T/pseuds/Bixby%20Flood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is Dean Winchester, coming to save you, but all you can think of is the hot, salty blood running just beneath this human’s skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_I must be dying._  
  
Why wouldn’t you be?  
  
Foolishly, you went on this mission alone, literally traipsing into the vampire’s den, so _of course_ , you’re fucking dying, and _God_ does it suck.  
  
You know your time is limited. In a matter of moments, you’ll no longer have your wits about you, so if you’re to do anything, you’ll need to act now.  
  
Feeling for something useful, your hands press frantically against your pockets. You find your phone. Your hands shake as you pull it out of your breast pocket and flip it open. Your fingers fumble against the keys, searching for a number. You find it. It dials. It rings. And rings. And _rings_. And then it cuts out.  
  
 _'This is Dean’s other, other cell, so you must know what to do.’_  
  
 _“Dean?”_ Even to your ears, which fills with a building roar, your voice sounds shaky, scared, almost breathless. “Dean,” you start again, “I need your help…”


	2. Chapter 2

He finds you in this sunlit, empty warehouse the next morning. Your hands are chained in front of you, looped around the base of a radiator. The chains cut into your wrist, leaving it red and worn. There’s a putrid puddle you've been kneeling in since your stomach churned and its content flooded your mouth. Still, when he enters the room, you feel your whole body smile. This is Dean Winchester, coming to save you, but all you can think of is the hot, salty blood running just beneath this human’s skin.  
  
"Hello?" Your voice is too loud for this space; scratched raw from screaming and echoing against every exposed surface. The sound makes your head pound. You lean forward, resting your forehead against your knees, and try to breathe through what’s hurting.  
  
There’s slow, unsure footsteps circling you. You look up through dry, cried out eyes, to find him checking each nook and cranny of this place; making sure it’s cleared out. His back’s to you, and you can see his torn jacket and blood-soaked cuffs. In his hand, he holds a machete. Though his arm is down by his side, the knife points upwards, ready to be swung.  
  
Finally, he turns to you, eyebrows knitted. “All clear.” It sounds like a statement but, really, he’s asking for you to confirm. All you can do is stare, hazy eyed and mesmerized by the the dewy moisture that’s condensed across his brows.  
  
“Doing okay?” he asks. Your only response is to tug your chains a little and try to get closer to him. He takes it as a sign to hurry things along.  
  
You watch as he rummages through his pockets, pulling out a couple of red-filled syringes and a small, half-empty, capped mason jar. He removes the lid, then holds up both vials of blood to the light, squirting the darker, thicker liquid into the jar and swirling it around.  
  
“Insurance,” he says, waving the lighter colored vial at you. “Just in case…”  
  
Once he’s done, he moves towards you, dropping to his knees when he’s just a foot away. This close, his heart is beating Poe-style; like the sound is plugged directly into your ears. You can’t help but lean forward, breathing in the scents coming off him. When he notices, he puts a little more distance between you, an abashed smile gracing his face and an apologetic head tilt.  
  
“Nothing personal,” he says this as he extends the jar towards you, placing it between your locked hands. “Bottoms up.”  
  
You just stare, not sure what he expects of you. He touches the bottom of the cup, guiding it up towards your mouth until you get the point.  
  
The drink goes down rough. The taste is bitter and burns your throat. You can feel it coat your belly and the fire it stokes in your veins. You look up at Dean, eyes confused and pleading.  
  
Everything after that is scorching pain.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up disoriented. You're in a dark room, on a comfortable bed, but it’s cold as ice. Your clothes are damp. You’re shivering. You sit up. Your body aches, every part of it. You shut your eyes tight against the pain and try to tamp it down.  
  
Now that you’re still, you can hear the breathing off somewhere on your left. When you open your eyes again, it takes a moment for you to adjust, but then you see it; the shape of a body laid in the bed across from yours. Out of the corner of your eyes, a dim glow illuminates a face.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
His eyes pop open. His spine straightens. For a moment, he sits unmoving in a chair next to a table, his phone clutched in his hand. Then he’s on his feet, to you.  
  
“How you feeling?” he whispers, shooting a quieting glance in Sam’s direction.  
  
Your teeth chatter. “Cold.”  
  
“Shit.” He moves to the AC unit under the window and shuts it off. “Sorry,” he says, “You were burning up before.”  
  
You nod quietly, trying to pull the blankets up around you. “Vamp bite?”  
  
Dean shakes his head. “The cure. It’s a bitch.”  
  
You’re still shaking, violently. Dean rubs his hands up and down your covered arms, trying to push some warmth into you. It doesn’t seem to be working.  
  
“How ‘bout a hot bath?”  
  
“And some food? I think I’m starving.”  
  
“That I can do.”


End file.
